Murder on the Moor by Bruce Beckham

Author:Bruce Beckham [Beckham, Bruce]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lucius
Published: 2020-07-10T22:00:00+00:00

8. COCKERMOUTH

Tuesday afternoon

Skelgill has reached his summit.

There is the added bonus that his parking spot is unoccupied. That he has not heard from his team, however, suggests their quest has been less successful. Not that his was a ‘quest’ as such, for the word implies a tangible goal.

Also vacant upon his arrival is the bench seat overlooking the convening rivers. Early for his rendezvous he settles to watch the spaniel. Having promptly chased away four grazing mallards and a moorhen, it drinks thirstily in the shallows. The weather has been dry for a couple of weeks; the Derwent before him is tamed; at his back the Cocker slides past silent and meek. Both run clear, when at times their differing silted hues delineate their reluctance to meld, for a good distance downstream. But such placidity can be deceptive; a cloudburst over the fells, and Skelgill’s bench could disappear beneath two fathoms of deadly rushing floodwater.

For the time being, however, sitting comfortably, he reprises the last hour or so.

He had first struck off through the woods, crossing the main driveway and following his nose down to the environs of Troutmere. He had tried the door of the boathouse, but found it locked, and had decided against another tilt at the pitched roof. With a small degree of difficulty, he had recovered his hazel rod from the reeds, initially underestimating how far he had managed to hurl it. He had deemed that with a bit of tidying up it would make a half-decent fell-walking staff.

From the lake he had climbed the twilit tunnel through the rhododendrons. Where last night the quad bike had been parked there now lay discarded a red one-gallon petrol can. He had contemplated taking it with him to preserve it as evidence, but in the end had settled on prodding it by means of his stick into the safe cover of a thick clump of stinging nettles.

Retracing his steps he had traversed the dam and headed up into the surrounding trees, re-crossing the drive into woodland of a more ornamental nature; in due course he had reached the track that took him back to the stile, now strung with barrier tape. In the lee of the wall the grassy area was a veritable suntrap, and he was not surprised to see that PC Dixon had removed her heavy stab vest and was reclining with her back to the stones. She had leapt to attention, until he had reassured her that, in her shoes, he would be doing the same thing – indeed, that he would probably be spark out on the turf – truer than she could know, given his abridged and fitful sleep last night. Certainly the notion had been appealing, as was the prospect of chatting to the girl – until she flashed him a smile. He found it horrifying and compelling in equal measure that the disfigurement transformed such an attractive countenance into a grotesque mask – and though wanting to he failed to contrive a way to ask about her missing incisor.

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